


yes, though i'm torn and tattered, i'll abide

by doctoralanabloom



Category: Jaws (Movies)
Genre: (at least eventually), Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dealing With Trauma, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Post-Canon, Slow Burn, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, incl some inadvisable overuse of alcohol, matt dissociates, maybe???, the major character death is quint so? dont? worry? i guess?, this is kind of a matt hooper character study
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:40:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27653564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctoralanabloom/pseuds/doctoralanabloom
Summary: Matt felt a tug somewhere in his gut, watching Chief Brody and Ellen, but he was hazy enough to ignore it, and besides; he couldn’t blink without the shark coming at him from behind his eyelids–– and he much preferred to keep those softer feelings far away from all this.
Relationships: Ellen Brody/Martin Brody, Ellen Brody/Martin Brody/Matt Hooper, Martin Brody/Matt Hooper, brief Matt Hooper/OFC
Kudos: 3





	yes, though i'm torn and tattered, i'll abide

**Author's Note:**

> title from the song john the gun by hiss golden messenger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> matt in the immediate aftermath of killing the shark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning for a sex scene that i really don't feel like qualifies as smut, but you know.

Matt Hooper returned to the Oceanographic Institute the day after they killed the Great White. No one had slept the night before; he, Martin, and Ellen had all piled together on the Brodys’ couch, passing around a bottle of whiskey and lapsing in and out of fitful and booze-addled sleeps that never lasted more than an hour apiece. Little was said between the three, but a comfortable silence settled over the den as they drank and sat and tried to turn the world over in their heads so that it would make sense again. It didn't. 

Eventually, somewhere like two in the morning, the Chief persuaded his wife to get some rest in their own bed. She’d gone, but not without first pressing a kiss to Hooper’s cheek and then holding Brody in her arms for a long moment. Hooper watched the other man sink into his wife’s embrace, the fresh grief and uneasy triumph seeming to float off his brow like it was nothing. It seemed to Matt that, for an instant, in Ellen's arms, Brody had no need to feel anything, for his senses were all filled up with her. Matt felt a tug somewhere in his gut, watching them, but he was hazy enough to ignore it, and besides; he couldn’t blink without the shark coming at him from behind his eyelids–– and he much preferred to keep those softer feelings far away from all this.

In the morning, Brody roused him from a dead sleep. He’d been out for around an hour and a half, topping the other man’s previously established record of forty-five minutes, all logged with his feet in Hooper’s lap. The two children emerged silently from their rooms and regarded Hooper with an uncertain kind of reverence as he trundled into the bathroom with the taste of cotton in his mouth and a full glass in his hand. When little Sean asked what was that man drinking, Brody only laughed and replied fondly:

“Cherry soda.” 

He’d seen it fit to give Matt a little hair of the dog and they’d never finished the second of the bottles of red wine he’d brought over at the beginning of the week. Hoop took a swig and frowned at himself in the mirror as the musical sound of Ellen’s voice blended in with the clanking of dishes and silverware and the smell of eggs that Brody had begun to fry on the stovetop.

All things considered, he didn’t feel too lousy. The wine, rather than help, was apt to make a liar out of him, but it was a better alternative than heading the day off completely sober. Hooper showered and dried himself and wandered out of the bathroom looking only slightly better than a drowned dog. The kids could be heard playing out in the yard and a pot lid sat on top of the only remaining place setting on the kitchen table. Brody and Ellen were sitting in opposite chairs, moved slightly away from the table, her leg stretched between them, tucked beside Brody’s hip on the wooden seat of his chair. They were looking at each other; the soft, silent language of a long-married couple. Brody had lapsed into that quiet, sad smile of his that Matt somehow recognized as if he’d known the man his whole life.

“Should still be warm,” the Chief said, nodding to the plate and only dropping Ellen’s gaze to look at Hooper after he’d spoken. Hoop nodded appreciatively and offered something halfway like a smile, his lips pulled into a thin line. He felt distinctly as if he was interrupting something and sat down a little awkwardly at the table, chair scraping against the floor like a strangled woodwind instrument. He winced, and Ellen looked up lazily, offering a smile, and reached across the table to close a warm and reassuring hand over his wrist. Martin’s eyes followed her hand, and he caught Matt’s eye as she pulled away. Brody looked sheepish, like he felt guilty that he hadn’t been the one to do it, and though Hooper wanted to put him at ease, he could muster up little more than a similarly chagrined smile, perhaps ashamed for needing the assurance in the first place.

Brody drove him to the dock where the two watched tensely as the ferry loomed larger and larger through the windshield as they pulled up to park. They shook hands stiffly, and though ordinarily Hooper might have thrown caution to the wind and embraced Brody, there was no grand goodbye to be said–– Matt would be back on Amity within the week for Quint’s funeral. The thought of staying on the island in the interim had occurred to him, and Martin and Ellen had offered him a place to stay, but the sand in his hair had begun to suffocate him and though he knew he was among friends, the wide eyes of the Brody children made his skin crawl. _This wasn’t his home, not really_. Of course, his home was completely empty of the warmth found in the Brodys’, but at least it was his. With its blue walls and stark furniture, it never looked entirely lived in, never felt like home the way your childhood bedroom does. It always felt like a college dorm; a place to stay, even a place to nest, but never a place in which he felt really and truly held.

He looked around the apartment now, only vaguely remembering disembarking from the boat–– on which he had sat calculatedly in the middle, below the overhang so as to avoid seeing too much of the water–– but he knew he’d taken a cab to his apartment building, remembered the way his bag had thumped to the ground when he’d dropped it. Most of his gear was still over in Amity; he’d only really taken his more personal effects with him this trip: clothes, notes, his wetsuit that Ellen had hung out overnight and was somehow dry by morning. Hooper didn’t bother to unpack his bag, or even bring it into his room. It remained out in the hall like a well-trained old dog. He showered again, feeling ripe from travel, and put on fresh clothes, ones that hadn’t seen the likes of Amity. Then, he made his way over to the institute.

Hooper drove up, parked,and greeted the security guard. When he arrived at the lab, they seemed to have been waiting for him, and greeted him with applause which he tried to appreciate but that felt, ultimately, hollow. Shouldn’t they have been booing him? A whole roomful of marine scientists, celebrating the murder of an animal that, while it had killed people, yes, was at its core only acting on instinct? It felt delusional, wrong. 

This newfound empathy for the shark both soured any congratulations and made Hooper feel sick, but he grinned his toothy grin as if he meant it, regaling the group with energetic tales of the Orca’s exploits, gratefully accepting a glass of scotch when it was pressed into his hand by a colleague. It was as though he was watching himself, removed, in some unknown corner of the room. It felt totally alien, all of it. How could any of these people hope to understand what had. transpired. They weren’t on the damned island, much less the _boat._ But he performed admirably, and no one called attention to the way he skimmed past Quint’s death as if it had not happened at all. He was sure they knew, though. They’d been radioing fairly regularly to Amity for updates.

People continued to chat and drink and the festivities continued for what Hooper could only imagine were a few hours when a co-worker he only vaguely knew offered to walk him to his car. The offer struck him as odd, but he hardly felt as though he could turn it down, and when she stepped in close and told him that a hero like him shouldn’t be alone tonight, he simply agreed and drove her back to his apartment complex.

Neither wasted time on pretense; they were upon each other as soon as the door had closed. Hooper tried to find some passion, some sense of joy that he was alive and could feel things, good things. The woman–– her name was Elaine–– murmured things breathlessly against his mouth that he didn’t really hear. He lifted her by the backs of her thighs and she flung her arms around his neck delightedly as he fumbled toward his bedroom where he made love to her. It started off slow; the shy kind of way he usually went about things with a new partner, but she encouraged him to move faster, harder. She whined pornographically––an effort that Hooper appreciated in concept, but got little out of in practice. As he rutted against her, he tried to feel something beyond the firing of his nerve endings, but came up empty. He still felt hollowed out like some blind and senseless jack-o-lantern with no holes through which to breathe or perceive the world. Vacant of any real feeling besides a thin veil of disconnect, Matt chose to focus instead on the woman beneath him who, thankfully, seemed to be having a good time. This was something, at least, that he knew how to do, even if his heart wasn’t in it.

Before long, he spilled into the condom and kept at his movements until Elaine’s voice reached a crescendo, He held her through the aftershocks, breathing heavily and when she reached up to kiss him,he let his thumb drag across her cheek before he lumbered out of bed and to the bathroom to set about getting the both of them cleaned up.

That taken care of, he went into a blessedly deep and dreamless sleep and when he woke in the morning, he didn’t know where he was for a few awful moments. Though it only lasted a split second, for one horrifying second he thought he was in bed with Ellen Brody, but then he remembered that her hair was blonde and Elaine–– _yes, right, Elaine_ –– was a brunette. As the night came back to him, he chuckled drily to himself, imagining Brody might have found the need for Quint’s shotgun, had he actually found Hooper in bed with his wife.

Perhaps roused by the sound of Hooper’s voice, Elaine stirred beside him, mumbling out a groggy “G’morning.” Hoop laid a warm, but distinctly platonic hand on her arm and said, “I’ll make coffee,” before shuffling out of bed and away into the kitchen to safety. 

He found the silence a little sad, though he was glad Elaine had elected to leave him undisturbed for a while. Though it had made him self-conscious at the time, he missed the wondering stares of Brody’s kids, the ease with which the Chief and his wife walked around their home: a family home. But it didn’t make sense. Hooper had been all right up til now, living the life of a bachelor, doing his research, hadn’t he? Why now was he suddenly craving a piece of domesticity–– much less one that wasn’t _his_?

As the pot was near-done, Elaine emerged from his bedroom, dressed, and caught him looking bewildered. She arched an eyebrow. 

“You all right, Hooper?” Matt nodded almost mechanically.

“Yeah. Yeah, sorry. How do you take your…?”

“Black, thanks.” He poured a mugful and handed it to her, suddenly strangely embarrassed that, when he could, he took his with milk _and_ with sugar. He drank his black, too. When he asked if she was hungry she airily but kindly declined and asked to use his telephone to call a cab. At the doorway, she gripped his arm and pressed a kiss to his cheek in a way that felt, much to his relief, very final. 

As the sound of the car engine faded away, Hooper found himself standing in the same spot by the door, looking blankly at the entryway as if it would tell him what to do next. The funeral would be Sunday, and this was Thursday, now. 

The thought of returning to Amity made him feel funny; half dread that made his stomach drop, and half relief. Relief that, if nothing else, he’d see Ellen and Martin again and sleep on their lovely worn couch and they’d all drink so that he wouldn’t have to feel the unpleasant things and it would be good. If only for a moment, it would be good.


End file.
